Somewhere close to a dedication to a few friends of twelve years or so. Even others:
Your longing gaze that now, is ever flooded and drooling, oozing a strange batter of odd ambitions and little failures; your little flutter of a heartbeat that has long forsaken peace, sleep and the option of a graceful defeat, listen. Ahead is a lot of noise, I am afraid I will lose you.Come back.
You left today. I don't feel anything at all. You felt sad and uneasy while leaving this time. It is like this I think. Our life works in two worlds. We work with our minds and hearts shut to all pleasant heartwarming scenes and sounds in the world outside. Then, we eagerly run home in the break and suddenly our frozen bodies come alive. We laugh, talk and play. The real person that I am, the child within, etc comes alive. This is a magical town. Maybe some replenishing quality in the water. On the other hand, the world outside in those cities is like Gotham city, or the "Flying Dutchman" and its people are like those half dead rotting corpses. No matter how much they spend, what they eat it does not satiate them. Meaning: They cannot enjoy anything they do or cherish it in memory unlike you and me who meet every summer and talk the same and still feel joyous.
Who says that growing up is all this? Who says it means having to swear like a pro? I love the way you put so much effort in your argot and still end up like the funniest spoof of Max Payne. :) I like that you are so stupid sometimes that I want to "uplift" you from life itself.Hehehe.
Don't ask me how it feels to be left alone at home a day before leaving it. I can so dream the Hogwarts express tomorrow, cold and bleak, rain lashing at my windows while I am transported to the sea-version of Auschwitz where a monster (deadlier than Kraken) devours all buildings, people, memories, dreams, desires ( the usual bundle of words) but asymmetrically.
More I dread is those scumbags of scholars who have well fashioned me into priding the fact that I know I am not sure of anything in the smart world outside. They are the ones to blame if you and I think "The lover is actually the beloved" is a lame thought. Down with them if I cannot enjoy the Renaissance art and sing sweet old village songs. I hate Derrida and his deconstruction. I think he was a real nutjob to be not able to pretend that he liked the aesthetic of big pictures and start critiquing my nose hair.
Come back, I do not know where the train stops. The stops will change every few years but the train goes on. The point is how far are we willing to go? Figuratively and literally.